


The Virgin, the Doctor, and the Criminal

by rory_the_faery



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual!lock, Forced Rape, M/M, Rape, ace!lock, fuck or die type scenario
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 02:12:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1287352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_the_faery/pseuds/rory_the_faery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is kidnapped by Moriarty and John is given a choice: rape Sherlock, or let Moriarty rape him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You or Me

John came home late from the pub after finally having accepted Greg's offer to go out for drinks sometime. Sherlock had been skirting around the edges of a case he'd been certain Moriarty was involved with and John had told him to try and get some sleep while he went out -- a suggestion that he _knew_ Sherlock hadn't listened to. Expecting to find Sherlock messing around with chemicals in the kitchen or playing the violin when he got home, John was surprised to find that the flat seemed…empty. Strange. John wondered what Sherlock could possibly have felt the need to leave the flat for at one in the morning and why, if it was so important, he hadn't invited John, when he heard Sherlock's phone go off. The screen lit up from where it sat on his desk among cluttered case files and pages of sheet music. John read Sherlock's texts all the time (most often, and most irritatingly, when Sherlock asked him to read them aloud because the detective couldn't be bothered to get up), so he picked the phone up off the desk.

 **One new message from:** _[number withheld]_

John clicked on the message.

_Missing someone, Johnny boy? JM_

John's fist clenched in anger. As he started to type a reply, asking where Sherlock was, the phone went off again.

_The pool. Come and play. JM_

John quickly grabbed his gun and pulled his coat back on, shoving Sherlock's phone into his coat pocket with his own mobile.

~~~

"I don't need to sleep," said Sherlock.

"Come on, Sherlock, everyone needs sleep. Just like…an hour or something? You haven't slept in almost a week," replied John as he pulled on his coat. Sherlock remained by the window, composing on his violin. "Right, well, I'm going out for a bit. Should be home in a few hours."

When Sherlock didn't reply, John sighed softly and went down the stairs.

Sherlock stood by the window for a few minutes. He was tired. That didn't mean he needed sleep. He just needed caffeine. Though, the sofa looked very tempting at the moment. Perhaps John was right. An hour of sleep would be good.

Within moments of flopping onto the cushions, his eyes fluttered closed and he fell asleep.

He woke to a sharp stabbing pain in his arm. He squirmed around on the sofa and saw Moriarty looming over him, injecting him with a small syringe.

"What are you -- "

"Shhh…" whispered Jim. "Go back to sleep, love."

"What -- what is this?" stammered Sherlock.

"Shh…" he whispered, and Sherlock fell back into unconsciousness.

~~~

John pushed open the doors to the pool and quickly went inside, where he saw Sherlock tied up, naked, with a cloth gag in his mouth, kneeling against the wall. He slumped against the tiles, Jim's fingers carding through his hair. Jim must have heard the door open, but didn't look up at John.

"He's such a pretty thing, isn't he?" murmured Jim. "Pity he's asexual…"

John furrowed his brow at Jim for a moment, made uneasy by Sherlock's state of undress paired with what Jim had said.

"Yeah well, that's…what he is, so…there's nothing we can do about it…" said John uneasily.

"Isn't there?" he asked softly, stroking Sherlock's cheek with his thumb.

John's eyes narrowed. "Don't touch him," he growled protectively.

Jim's eyes flicked up at him. "Don't be so tense, Johnny boy. He's unconscious now. Won't remember a thing…He won't know if I do anything to him," he said, his hand running down Sherlock's chest to the base of his limp cock. "He won't remember if I do this," he said, palming Sherlock's balls, which caused Sherlock to stir slightly, but he didn't wake.

" _Stop it!_ " yelled John, instinctively reaching for his gun.

Jim smirked and stepped back, holding his hands up defensively. "I've got snipers stationed all around this place," said Jim, "so if I were you -- assuming you don't want to see Sherlock's pretty little brain splattered all over the wall -- , I'd stop pointing that gun at me."

John bit his lip and set the gun down on the floor, kicking it a few meters away.

"Atta boy…" said Jim. "You know, John… He wouldn't remember if you did anything to him either," he said with a twisted grin.

John looked at him, not liking what Jim was suggesting.

"Oh, come on, I see the way you look at him, Johnny…" said Jim. "Hell, you killed a man for him the day you met. If that's not love -- "

" _This_ ," said John firmly, "isn't love."

This was rape.

"Well, no, you're right. Not exactly love…but, it's the closest you'll ever get to it with him."

Sherlock stirred again and his eyes opened, still slightly dazed and vaguely unaware of his surroundings.

"If you don't," continued Jim, "I will. And I can assure you, I won't be as gentle as you."

John swallowed.

"Your choice," said Jim.

Sherlock stirred and tried to lift his head to look around, but he was too weak and slumped back against the wall, his nose pressing against the cold tile.

"Come on, do hurry, dear. Haven't got all night," said Jim. "People to kill, museums to rob…"

John felt panicked. He knew he'd have to do it. He knew he couldn't let Moriarty rape Sherlock, but this wouldn't be much better. What was worse -- being raped by your best friend? Or your worst enemy?

Sherlock started to squirm in the ropes, struggling unsuccessfully to free himself.

"You'll want this," said Jim, tossing John a bottle of lubricant.

John looked at the bottle in his hands and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, drawing in a deep breath before looking back at Jim. "I fucking hate you."

Jim only smirked in reply and kicked Sherlock down onto all fours. Drawing in another deep breath, John walked over to Sherlock and knelt down beside him.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, "I'm _so_ sorry." He looked at Sherlock and then closed his eyes. He couldn't. He couldn't see Sherlock as he the pieces started to click together in his brain. He couldn't see the panic rising up in him, though he could hear the change in his breathing. A muffled sound came from his mouth that sounded like a "please". John inhaled deeply and opened his eyes. "I know you don't want this, but I haven't got a choice.…It'll be over before you know it, I promise. I'll make it quick, okay?" John felt his voice cracking as he tried to reassure Sherlock. He could see tears welling up in the detective's eyes and John's heart broke. He'd never seen Sherlock cry before, almost wondered if he ever had, if he even _could_ cry.

As John gently eased in one lubricated finger, tears fell down Sherlock's face and John could hear him start to cry. He added another finger as gently as he could and scissored his fingers, stretching Sherlock. He slicked up his cock and positioned himself over Sherlock, whose eyes were shut tight, likely trying to escape somewhere in his mind. John eased into him and Sherlock whimpered, tears still falling down his face. He slowly pulled almost all the way out and then pushed back in, continuing in slow, gentle thrusts, trying to get off as quickly as he could, but it was difficult with muffled sobs coming from Sherlock.

"Come on dear, fuck him harder than that!" taunted Jim. "Or else I might have to have a go at him when you're finished."

John thrust harder, causing Sherlock to scream.

"I FUCKING HATE YOU, JIM!" yelled John, tears stinging in the corners of his eyes as he desperately tried to get off, thrusting harder. He tried to recall in as much detail as he could the porn video he'd watched last night, that time he'd shagged Sarah, anything to try and make this end quicker, but Sherlock kept fucking squirming. Without realising it, John gripped roughly onto Sherlock's shoulders, forcing him to keep still. Sherlock's sobs grew hysterical. It hurt. Every thrust sent a shock of pain through the detective's body.

"Shut _up_!" snapped John, and again without it quite registering in his brain, John tugged on the gag slightly, causing a choking sound to escape Sherlock's lips and then he grew silent.

Finally, John managed to get off, coming inside of Sherlock. It felt horrible and disgusting an dirty to Sherlock. As John pulled out, Sherlock felt empty, and then felt cum dripping down his thighs which made him want to throw up.

John pulled his trousers back up, and finally got a look at Sherlock, who was reduced to a whimpering heap on the floor, tears silently flooding down his face, his voice too cracked, from screaming, to make a sound.

John could see bruises beginning to form where he'd grabbed him on his shoulders and his heart shattered.

"Oh my god…" he said, voice a hoarse whisper. "Sherlock, I…I'm so sorry, Sherlock…"

"Congratulations," said Jim, "you've just been promoted to Grade-A Monster. Excellent work, might I add. I mean look at him: he's completely broken. You nailed it -- literally. Couldn't have done a better job myself."

John wanted to turn and shove Jim against the wall and break his fucking nose. Or kill him. But instead, he found himself glued to the spot, unable to move. His eyes were stuck on Sherlock, whose white cloth gag was stained with blood and whose alabaster shoulders were marked with purple bruises in the shape of John's hands and whose tears had been caused by John, the man who'd sworn to protect him. 'I'm so sorry, Sher…' he wanted to say, but he couldn't form any words.

Jim walked over to Sherlock, lifting his chin up with his shoe. "How ya feeling, Sherly?" Sherlock's eyes were barely open; he looked broken down and exhausted.

John swallowed, fists clenched at his sides, but his feet were still glued to the floor and as much as he wanted to, he couldn't look away from Sherlock.

Jim crouched beside Sherlock, pressing his fingertips onto the bruises on Sherlock's back, causing him to flinch. "Johnny boy sure did fuck you, didn't he, 'Lock?" he said, grinning. "Must say, I'm impressed. Didn't think he had it in him, but Jesus…he let you have it -- "

"Shut up!" snapped Sherlock, then slumped against the tiles, the outburst having used the last of his energy.

Jim arched an eyebrow, grin spreading across his face. "Well, a deal's a deal, so I'll let you keep him, Johnny," he said, picking up Sherlock's coat from where it had been tossed on the floor in a corner. He tossed the coat to John. "The rest of his clothes are at your flat."


	2. Afraid

Sherlock hadn't spoken to John since it happened. It had been nearly a week. John didn't quite know how, considering they lived together, but Sherlock had managed not to utter a single word to the doctor, avoiding him at any and all costs. John would occasionally happen upon him in the flat, and once he'd asked if he was alright and if he wanted to talk about it, to which Sherlock had gotten up, grabbed his coat and left the flat. John wasn't a genius, but he didn't have to be to know where Sherlock was going. He hadn't reported any of this to Mycroft, of course. How could he? Mycroft would wonder what had prompted his brother suddenly starting up drugs again after nearly two years of being sober, and John knew his fate if Mycroft ever found out about any of this.

Maybe he deserved it. Sometimes he thought maybe he should phone Mycroft and tell him everything. He knew Mycroft would kill him. They seemed to have a rocky relationship, but John could see the fierce protectiveness in Mycroft that if he ever found out about this, he would not think twice about murder.

Aside from not speaking to John and mysterious disappearances to drug dens in the shadier areas of London, Sherlock pretended otherwise to be fine. He hadn't told anyone, to John's knowledge, and acted completely normal around other people. But John knew he wasn't alright. He didn't sleep, barely ate. He'd started to noticeably shed weight already, and it had only been less than a week.

He was playing the violin at the moment. A sad, quiet string of notes that flowed, filling the flat with what was clearly sorrow and anguish. He'd been playing for hours and the melody had gotten faster and more anxious as it progressed until eventually it became a panicked cacophony of notes that pierced John's ears like pins.

"Sherlock," he murmured softly. Sherlock didn't hear him. "Sher," he repeated a bit louder this time. The playing ceased immediately.

"We need to talk," said John. "Sit down." He nodded towards Sherlock's chair encouragingly. The detective was hesitant, but after a brief moment of consideration, he put the violin down and sat in his chair across from John.

John took a deep breath. "I know...this is difficult to talk about. But we need to."

"I don't _need_ to do anything," said Sherlock with a faint mocking tone.

"Sher, look at yourself. You're an absolute wreck. Not that I blame you, I haven't been that great either."

"Oh, poor you," muttered the detective.

John sighed with a bit of irritation this time. "You're having a difficult time dealing with this, I understand."

"Oh?" Sherlock said with a biting tone and a sarcastically amused quirk of his eyebrow. "Do you? You understand what I'm dealing with? That's interesting. You understand what it's like to be violently raped by your best friend?"

John flinched, but quickly recovered, flaring back with as much anger as Sherlock. "You're not the only one who was violated!"

"Oh really?" replied Sherlock, "because if I recall correctly, I was the one who was raped; you were the one doing the _raping_."

"It's not as though I bloody wanted to rape you!"

"Didn't you?"

"Are you fucking serious? Of course I didn't! What the hell's gotten into you that you would think that?" In his defensiveness, John had gotten to his feet and slammed his fists on the arms of the chair. He noticed Sherlock flinch and cower slightly as he did this, and John bit his lip, taking a deep breath to calm himself. "Sherlock, we need to talk about -- "

"I'm done talking to you," said Sherlock, standing up and walking over to grab his coat.

"Wait -- " John said, and without thinking, grabbed Sherlock by the wrist.

Sherlock let out a yelp and jerked his arm away. "DON'T _TOUCH_ ME!" he screamed, stumbling back and barely catching himself from falling over the coffee table. John had jumped back in surprise and before he was able to respond, Sherlock was already out the door, having left his coat behind in his rush to get away.

John wanted to run after him. He wanted to fix this, wanted things to go back to the way they had been, but he couldn't.

Sherlock was afraid of him.

Things wouldn't ever be able to go back to the way they were because of that. If Sherlock was angry at him, or upset, it would be easy to fix this. If he was hurt, or mad, he could just yell at John for a while, John would let him, and eventually things would smooth over and they'd be alright. But Sherlock was afraid, something John had never really seen in him before. Fearless, arrogant and prideful Sherlock Holmes was frightened.

And John didn't know what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more part after this, I think? Maybe two. Not decided. But at least one more.


	3. Don't Touch Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Sherlock storms out of the flat, it can only be expected that he's going to use again. Fortunately he is found and the outcome is rather unfortunate for John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short! Next update should be soon..ish? Sorry, end of the semester has me a bit busy but I'm hoping to be able to give all of my fics at least one update over Christmas break which should start in a week.

Sherlock was hit with a sudden wave of cold over his body as he walked outside without his coat. It was January. Stupid of him to leave it inside, but he'd been in such a panic to get away from John, get away from having to think about any of this, that he'd forgotten. Checking quickly, he was relieved to find he did still have his wallet in his trousers pocket. He needed money.

Well, he needed something else, but that required money.

He was dressed a bit more posh than usual when he did this, but he supposed it didn't matter. He didn't really care if someone recognised him as he made his way to the lesser areas of the city. All he needed was relief. Relief from his thoughts, relief from emotions, relief from the pain that tore through his body like knives everywhere John had touched him.

About a half an hour and several pounds later he had it.

This was more than his usual dose, but then, these were more than his usual circumstances. As he lay on the cold cement floor in a place he couldn't entirely remember coming to, nor where he was, Sherlock was finally at peace for the first time since it had happened. Since John -- no, Moriarty -- had raped him. As angry and hurt and scared of John that Sherlock was, he still had to remember to separate him from Jim. Jim had done this. John had just been an instrument for him to do it with. A special way to make Sherlock hurt in a much more confusing way. Sherlock understood now that Jim had never intended to do it himself. John had to do it. John had to be the one to take Sherlock, to hurt him, or Jim's plan would've been pointless.

Sherlock's eyes were half closed and his breathing was alarmingly shallow, or he would've been alarmed anyway if he'd had the ability to notice. He could barely move so much as a finger, but at least he didn't hurt anymore. Surely, he realised, he must have some damage (albeit less than what Jim would've caused) and probably needed to see a doctor.

But well, a doctor was really the last thing he wanted to see right now.

Suddenly there was a hand on his neck, not with malice or intent to harm him, though. It was a gentle touch to where his pulse could be felt. And he heard voices around him, but he was too weary with drugs to make out what they were saying.

"Sherlock?" said a familiar voice, close to his face. There was concern in it

_Heavy London accent.  
Smoker._

"Sherlock," it said again. "Sherlock, can you hear me? Christ...come on, Sherlock, wake up. Say something if you hear me."

Lestrade.

Sherlock tried to move away from the hands on his neck, on his wrists, one placed over his forehead. Why did Lestrade have so many hands?

"I need to go to the hospital," he tried to say. It all came out much more slurred and jumbled together than he'd intended, but Lestrade seemed to understand.

"Yeah, I know you do," he said, though seemed relieved that Sherlock had spoken. "Sally just called an ambulance, I'll phone John too, alri--"

"No!" Sherlock said quickly, managing to pull himself up halfway into a sitting position, but Sally quickly caught him when he fell back down. Sally. Sally's hands. Lestrade didn't have so many hands, these were a woman's hands.

"No? Why not? I think he'd want to know.."

"No you can't!" he said, this time not managing to pull himself upright, but that didn't stop him trying.

"Are you sure?" Lestrade asked, confused as to why he wouldn't want Lestrade to call John. Was he embarrassed about using again? That wasn't like him. "Why not, Sherlock?" The ambulance could be heard outside. They'd be up here in a few moments.

"Morijohn..." Sherlock mumbled.

"John? Do you mean John?" he asked, waiting for the medics to come up. "What about John? Are you two fighting? What's wrong?"

Sherlock writhed uncomfortably like he didn't want to say. "...raped me.." he finally murmured, half-slurred but there was no way Lestrade and Sally couldn't have made it out. Lestrade's eyes went wide and Sally placed a hand over her mouth.

\--

About an hour after Sherlock arrived at the hospital, once Lestrade knew he was okay, the Detective Inspector got into the police car and drove to Baker Street.

John had been pacing madly through the living room. He'd called Lestrade and said Sherlock stormed out several hours ago (it was nearly three in the morning now) and he hadn't heard back from him yet. When he saw the Detective Inspector come up the stairs, his face lit up.

"Did you find him? What's happened? Where is he?"

Lestrade swallowed thickly. If you'd asked him a few hours ago, he never would've dreamt he'd be in the position he was in now. Couldn't imagine having to say this to John.

"I...I need you to come down to the station with me and answer a few questions."


End file.
